With Wishes Like Kisses
by Kavi Leighanna
Summary: He prides himself on being pretty damn smart for a guy who probably spent more time skipping classes over his four years in high school than in them. Lanie's not that girl. She's so far out of his league it's not even funny. Esplanie HS AU.


_High school AU. Modern day high school AU. Don't ask, just run with it. _

. . . . .

Lanie Parish is nothing to scoff at.

She rules the school, Javier knows, her and that Kate Beckett, with a compassionate heart and unwavering charm. (Which is entirely different from the way Gina Cowell rules the school with her iron grip and condescension. He still feels no guilt over hiding the live toad in her locker. She'd had it coming. It had nothing to do with the fact that he'd heard her, loudly, trying to start crap with Lanie. No one starts crap with Lanie.)

Lanie though – Lanie is something different. And doesn't have time for him.

Well, that might be an exaggeration, he just prides himself on being pretty damn smart for a guy who probably spent more time skipping classes over his four (five now, but that's because of his little stint in juvie that he _still_ gets mocked over. Still, no one messes with him, so there's that) years in high school than in them. Lanie's not that girl. She's so far out of his league it's not even funny.

Doesn't mean he doesn't watch. They have history together, a senior elective he's only required to take because he'd missed out on a sophomore one. It's not something he'd necessarily think of her doing either. She strikes him as a chemistry girl, all that physical science. Maybe a little English, he can see her enjoying Shakespeare or maybe that _Catcher in the Rye_ crap he still has to read. Man, he hates English.

(She's not prim and proper, and he wouldn't call her a nerd, but he'd definitely seen the AP bio textbook peeking out of her bag last week and almost wolf-whistled. But he's been careful to keep her admiration of her at arms length. He's a lot of things, but a hound isn't one of them and he thinks that maybe Lanie deserves more than that kind of crap.)

He gets most of his information from other sources. He's quiet as a mouse, see, and he knows how to ask questions. It doesn't take much. His calculus tutor ("Ryan," the kid had introduced himself, complete with his gangly arm sticking awkwardly out for a shake and his belt at his waist. "Kevin Ryan." And yet, Javier likes the guy. That, and his girlfriend bakes them cookies on the last Friday of every month. Jenny's a prize.) knows her from most of his AP classes. He's got a buddy on the football team who both knows one of her exes and tried to tap that himself. (Javier tries not to let his blood boil at that turn of phrase. Lanie isn't something you just 'tap', man.) Even the cheerleaders who want a go at a bad boy seem to have some opinion on her.

Then he gets his chance.

Their history class is covering the Congress of Vienna. (The teacher's a good guy, if a little round, but he doesn't look at Javier like the bug on his boot. And he never calls him out in class either, even though the guy's read enough of Javier's papers and marked enough of his tests by this point to know that while he may be a delinquent, he's not an idiot.) The teacher assigns them groups and by some stroke of miraculous luck, his name is called out just after Lanie's. She comes to him (as does the rest of his group) and she doesn't look pissed or wary about working with him. She's confident and hot as hell. If he believed in love, he'd probably say he was already in love with her.

The next couple of weeks are both hell and wonderful. They meet constantly, all five of them (they represent the Four Great Powers and France, each arguing for their stakes in the Congress, the renegotiating of borders and resources) if they can, but sometimes luck is on his side and it's just Lanie who joins him in the library on a spare.

("I didn't even know you knew where this place was," she says once as she settles beside him. The round tables are massive, but she shuffles her chair over to use his book, to see his notes. She does that a lot.

While he inhales whatever it is – perfume, body wash, who the hell knows – he waves into the stacks. "Russian lit," he says. "Camera blind spot."

The school has cameras, ever since the big drug bust of '08. Turns out the stacks aren't just great hook up locations, but pretty awesome places to hide drugs in hollowed out books.

Her eyebrow goes up. "How many girls d'you bring in here?"

"None," he smirks. "Can't have anyone knowing how I get my homework done. Better they believe I'm paying the nerds to do it."

He thinks he sees pride in her eyes, just behind that surprise.)

It's one of those study nights (for real, because Lanie's better than using 'study' as a euphemism) at her place because it's late and their presentation-project-debate-conference is coming up, and the rest of the team has left for who knows what (he's pretty sure Russia and Prussia are screwing, literally speaking, which is hilarious since Prussia's one of those die-hard religious ones that make his skin crawl) leaving he and Lanie to pick up the pieces. It's not the first time, they've been working the hardest, but he's having a bit of a tough time concentrating when her little sister brings her freshman girlfriends home and it gets _loud_. Lanie rolls her eyes, tries yelling, and eventually gives up.

"Come on," she says, and together they bundle up all their books and head up to her very pink room.

(He's seen it once, under very similar circumstances. She'd told him with the most solemn face he'd ever seen that if he even thought about mocking her, she'd make his life miserable. While he hadn't believed her, he hadn't mocked all of the pink and frills either. Instead, he knows he surprised her again when, after careful inspection of his surroundings, he'd said,

"You strike me as more of a purple girl."

He thinks she'd blushed.)

She heads right to her bed, with her tidy pink embroidered quilt, and drops onto it, not a care in the world. (Moments like these he always dubs Real-Lanie moments in his head. The more time he spends with her, the more he thinks her perfect little life is a bit of an exaggeration.) He has to consciously bring his eyes up from her ass, and try and block the irritated groan she releases into her bedspread from his mind.

The thing is, they don't talk. Not really. They discuss classes, school, he'd even helped her puzzle out a lit paper, but they don't talk about themselves. Not much, anyway. Little snippets, mostly sarcastic, but he's learning to read between the lines. So he leans against her pretty white vanity (a vanity, Christ. As if he needs a physical reminder for how far out of his league she is. He thinks he might be leaving grease stains, even though his clothes are clean) and breaks the cycle.

"You good?"

"Hm?" Her head comes up, long hair mussed. He likes that she doesn't do the braided thing. He has dreams about that hair.

"You good?" he repeats, slower. It'll get a reaction out of her, he knows and he's right when she turns to offer him a glare. It's offset by the bend of her body and the curve of her butt, but he figures he can let her off the hook this time. "You sound a bit rough."

"Are you telling me I look like crap?"

"Nope," he replies, popping the 'p'. He's got a rough streak. He's not stupid. "We can finish this tomorrow. Usual time, usual place."

(They've discovered over the course of this project they share a spare. While they haven't always worked on their assignment, they've both ended up at that same table in the library every time. He thinks maybe Mrs. McKinley saves them the seats because she likes Lanie.)

"Nah." She even shakes her head. "Let's just get it done."

Downstairs, he'd been sitting across the coffee table from her. She'd left her hair long, obscuring her face quite a bit and Javier can't say he'd thought much of it (and refuses to admit that it's because the way the light had hit her hair had made some strands seem read. Jesus, the girl has him waxing poetic about her damn _hair_.) but as he moves to sit with her on her bed (and stamps hard on the parts of him that are jumping for joy at the prospect of 'Lanie' and 'bed' together) he actually gets a good look at her.

And realizes telling her she didn't look like crap was an out-and-out lie.

Granted, she looks just run ragged, like she hasn't been sleeping much. He knows that he shouldn't bother, knows that it's not his place and he's just damn lucky they've been spending so much time together (he's been watching the days to their presentation count down with a stupid pathetic rock-like feeling in his stomach. Six months from now, he's going to want to look back and punch himself for how freaking lovesick that sounds. Javier Esposito does not get lovesick.) but he also knows that this Lanie is not one he likes.

And he reaches over, doesn't even know he's consciously doing it, runs a hand from the bottom of her spine (she's still sprawled on her stomach and she's lucky he didn't reach for her ass, not that he would like this) to the back of her neck. She starts, but when his fingers start moving on her skin under the waterfall of her hair, her entire body goes lax.

"It can wait," he says, and can't believe that's his voice.

"We're almost done," he manages to make out from where she's buried her head back in her quilt. "No reason to put it off."

He chuckles. "I know this is new to you Miss Priss, but sleep is something normal kids do these days."

Her head shoots up. "Miss Priss? What the hell do you take me for, Esposito?"

That's the other thing he likes about her. Sometimes, he gets 'Javi', like when it's just them in the library, but more often than not, she uses his last name. It shouldn't feel like an endearment, since all the guys on the team do it, and so does his 'team' on the streets, but coming from her, it sounds almost indecent.

"A goody-two-shoes," he retorts, apparently with no regard for his life. He doesn't usually poke her, doesn't usually pry. He has no idea what has him doing it tonight.

(Maybe it's panic, he thinks later. He's not kidding about counting down those days and they're in the single-digits now. It's a daunting thought, going through his spare without her. Going through his day without her.)

Thing is, she's still not moving more than her face (which is expressive enough, he's willing to admit) so his fingers are still digging into the soft skin of her neck, the bottom of her skull, even the tops of her shoulders. It's an unconscious massage on his part, because he does it for his sister, Ana, who's prone to migraines of the worst kind. He's spent a number of nights curled up with his sister, trying to calm her enough to sleep. His parents work so much he figures it's the least he can do for the trouble he seems to like kicking up. Point is, he can recognize the signs.

"Good grades doesn't mean a brownnose," Lanie says, and it jolts Javier from his thoughts.

He arches an unrepentant brow. "You have one, Lain."

Her eyes widen and his brow furrows. What had he said? What had he done?

"I think that's the first time you've used my name," she says and rolls over. It dislodges his hand and he wonders if the disappointment on her face is from his touch or from the fact that she's realizing he doesn't call her by name. "Didn't think you knew it."

He pauses to think about it. He never has, he realizes. He comes up with nicknames for her. She's been 'Pink Pony' for a week, and even 'Regina' when she'd work pink on a Wednesday. (That had been a mistake. She hadn't believed him when he'd said he had two sisters that watched the movie constantly. And wore pink on Wednesdays) He's called her 'Marie Curie' when he gets to the library and she's pouring over her chemistry, and the uncreative 'Juliet' when he'd caught her grumbling over a Shakespeare essay.

"It's not your name."

She rolls her eyes. "Close enough."

He lets himself relax, stretches out beside her. She watches him carefully, studying. It's disconcerting and more than a little terrifying, since he's pretty sure the fact that he wants to feel the curves of her body beneath his is becoming more and more obvious.

(Well, he'd like to do more than that. He'd like to take her to the park, maybe throw a Frisbee. He has this awesome fantasy of teaching her to spiral a football and one where he catches her in the living room with his sisters, chattering away as if they'd been like that for years. He's got ones of her in the kitchen with his Ma too, and talking baseball with his Pop. Sometimes he even dreams of dancing with her at prom, for God's sake and he's not even going to prom. He's just so utterly gone that he can't help it.)

"Lanie's too plain," he finally says and he sure as hell doesn't know why. But he's thought about it, definitely. 'Lanie' doesn't encompass the brain, or do justice to her body. It's a little girl's name that does nothing for the not-so-little girl that she is. She's Marie Curie and Mia Hamm and Mother Theresa, and Bernadette from _Big Bang Theory_ all rolled into one Tyra Banks package. She's not just a 'Lanie'.

But he can't tell her that. He has a reputation to maintain, after all. And so does she. So he sighs because he has to walk away now. He can't risk it, not Lanie. It doesn't matter how much he wants her, what matters is that she's just too damn good for him. She's going places, big places, and he refuses to even think about standing in her way.

(Not that he's in her way now. Not that she knew him before this project, except by dangerous reputation.)

"Where are you going?"

He looks back over his shoulder, having swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Home. It's getting late. You look like you could sleep for three days. The project can wait."

She's silent as he gathers his things, sorts through the books to figure out which are hers and which are his. He's most of the way to the door when he hears,

"Elaine."

He turns. "What?"

"Elaine. Lanie's a nickname. My name is Elaine."

He wrinkles his nose. "That's even worse."

She snorts, then she's pushing herself up. "If you're so good with names, what would you call me?"

He doesn't know what makes him say it, has no idea where the word even comes from. All he knows is that he opens his mouth and says, "Cari."

"Carrie?"

"No, Cari," he repeats, rolling the 'r'. "Cariña."

He's blushing now, he knows it, but Lanie just tilts her head to the side, curious. Well, he doesn't think it's all curiosity. There's something else in her gaze too (maybe interest, but he's pretty sure he's just projecting on that one).

"Cariña," he repeats. "Means 'sweetheart'."

Now there's definitely awareness in her gaze, and interest too. "You'd call me 'sweetheart'," she repeats slowly, pushing herself to standing.

He's in hot water now. He knows it, all the things he'd just admitted because her eyes are hypnotic and her curves are making his mouth water. He's not a damn saint, after all, and he's spent too much time with her now. He knows more about her, and he's even more interested in the pieces that make her tick.

He shrugs, hoping it's tough and nonchalant. The way her eyes are glowing he thinks maybe it was more petulant. What this girl does…

"Sounds good."

"Yeah, sorry I- Wait, what?"

She shrugs now, but her hand's come up to play with the sleeve of his t-shirt. "I'd be okay with it."

"Lain, this isn't funny."

"I'm not being funny," she replies. "You've been watching me for months, Javier Esposito, don't think I haven't noticed."

For real? Jesus.

"Didn't figure you for a coward."

Cow- What the hell was she on about? "The hell I am."

He eyebrow cocks up, a damn dare, and he takes it, in part because he's weak and in part because he never turns down a challenge.

(She tastes like mint chapstick, not like he gets much of a chance, even though he threads his hand through her hair to keep her close. This is still Lanie, and what may have been a good idea at the time certainly doesn't look the same when he pulls back.)

Her eyes take a few moments to flutter open and what he sees makes his breath catch. If he'd through she was gorgeous before, it has nothing on the way her face is content and relaxed now.

"'Bout time, Espo," she says, her hand sliding down his shirt-front. He feels it like a brand on his chest. "Figured you'd never get around to it."

He kisses her again, because he can't stand the smug smirk on her face.

* * *

_I've used 'Cari' in plenty of fics before, so as far as I understand, it's a thing, but when I Googled they told me it wasn't? So I apologize if it's not actually Puerto Rican Spanish; it's what my head canon!Javier calls my head canon!Lanie literally all the time. There are many fics with this. _

_Thanks for reading!_


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